


make your darkness mine

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Competence Kink, Dominance, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim realizes that Alfred's far more powerful and dangerous than he lets on; Jim likes it far more than he should.</p><p>Warnings for mentions of canon character death of Thomas and Martha Wayne, for Jim's fantasies of being held down for noncon, and for actual noncon because both parties are extremely intoxicated and other possible noncon elements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make your darkness mine

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt dubcon/noncon for the Five Acts Meme

Jim brought over a whiskey, cheap and English, figuring he could get Alfred drunk enough to tell him about all those mysterious instructions Thomas Wayne left. Alfred didn’t seem the type to drink up his dead boss’ best booze, but he seemed to like the 12-dollar bottle Jim brought over just fine.

Jim, of course, had to drink enough to keep up.

But even half drunk (okay, more than half), Jim could see that Alfred was letting his guard down.

Or rather, Alfred was going too drunk to hide that he never let his guard down.

Eyes on the exits, razor sharp reflexes. Alfred had been hiding it well. But now, as they were drunk and moping on the couch, complaining bitterly about Gotham, Jim could see who he was really dealing with.

British ex special forces. Jim had met a few overseas. He should’ve spotted it right away, but Alfred made a damn convincing butler.

At the back of Jim’s mind, he realized that it meant that Alfred had training to make sure he didn’t give up secrets no matter how drunk he got. But somehow, he had stopped worrying about the information he came for and started thinking about what Alfred looked like under his suit, if he was still all muscle. Jim was pretty good at hand to hand, but he bet Alfred could pin him down, hold him there, even if he struggled. He kept thinking about how easy it would be for Alfred to subdue him, to overpower him.

It made his breath hitch, and not in a bad way.

“Detective,” Alfred said suddenly, voice stern, taking Jim out of his thoughts. “Why exactly are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason…” Jim said, then, whiskey talking, “Sir.”

Alfred’s eyes went cold. “What exactly are you implying?”

“That you used to be… not a butler.” Jim took another swig, this time right from the bottle, and waved his hand in the general direction of Alfred’s body.

“Well I didn’t pop out of the womb this way.”

Jim put the bottle down. “You know what I mean.” He gave Alfred a quick little smile. Probably a stupid idea.

Alfred paused. “For a second there, I thought maybe you just liked calling me ‘sir.’” 

“That too,” Jim said, looking at the bottle.

Alfred took the bottle out of Jim’s hand and set it down gently. He moved closer to Jim on the couch. His eyes were predatory, and it turned Jim on, and he hated himself for it, he hated that the idea of a skillful killer holding him down was a turn on, he hated that he couldn’t get turned on by softness any more.

Jim looked at Alfred, fear in his eyes. “Do it,” he said, voice cracking. “Do it before I lose my nerve.” He grabbed the bottle up again and finished the last amber line at the bottom.

Alfred moved a hand up Jim’s thigh, then moved Jim’s body so he was lying down on the couch, one swift graceful motion. Jim tried to catch his breath as Alfred gripped his hips, bruising hard, and leaned down to kiss Jim’s neck. 

“Not so gentle,” Jim gritted out, and he sensed Alfred tense; he knew then that Alfred didn’t like being told what to do, and he was glad, he felt a sudden stupid drive to provoke the man. “I said, get on with it.”

A rip then, and the buttons on Jim’s shirt fell to the floor. A bite on Jim’s shoulder, making him cry out in a way that even he knew was unmanly. Jim’s pants gone then, pulled down and off too quickly to resist, and another gesture and Alfred had Jim on his hands and knees on the carpet, wearing nothing but boxers, so fast Jim barely realized what was going on. He felt Alfred's hand on him, his arms holding Jim in place; Jim couldn't get away even if he wanted to.

It was, even more than the bottle, intoxicating.

“You sure you don’t want gentle?” Alfred said, breath full of whiskey against Jim’s ear.

Jim nodded, barely realizing he was doing it, and he heard Alfred’s buckle come undone, heard Alfred spit on his fingers before he lowered Jim’s boxers and started pressing into him, two fingers at once. 

It _hurt_. It burned. Jim closed his eyes and tried to focus on the sensation, but as he felt Alfred’s fingers move in him, rough, aggressive, he kept thinking of what Alfred must feel like, with all that training, able to handle any enemy in the world, completely helpless to do anything for the kid, to do anything to bring back the dead couple who were obviously family to him. He thought of the frustration, the rage, the desperation that must be throttling Alfred from the inside out, and he wanted to Alfred that he understood – more than anyone, Jim understood – but Jim was grunting in pain, his mind half in a whiskeyed haze, and so he just mumbled, “Now, now,” until he felt Alfred breach him, one long blaze of a push all the way in, and Jim’s fingers gripped helplessly against the carpet as he screamed from the fullness.


End file.
